


Addict With A Pen

by Okenite



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-07-07 01:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okenite/pseuds/Okenite
Summary: You’ve just turned 23 and you started your first job as an English teacher at Worthington High School in Columbus. Teaching is your passion and the way you teach really resonates with most of the kids. But there’s one kid in the 12th grade, graduation year, with whom you can’t seem to connect. Until one day you do…





	1. Chapter One

You smile as you enter the classroom, noticing that more than half of the students have already taken out their books. So you put down your brown leather bag on top of the desk and take off your soaked jacket. It’s been raining for days now. You sniff as you glance outside where the rain has covered everything in a grey mist. The sight is pretty depressing, but you decide to shake it off and start your day with a positive mind.

People don’t think of you as a sad person. Even when you are dead serious, you always approach them with a kindness and that’s why you are loved by so many. But we all wear masks, and you are no exception. Your mask has shielded you from the horrible things that the world has to offer and it’s just as well. You are not equipped to deal with it, not now and not ever. So you put on a smile for everyone to see. A clear signal that states that you are fine. Just fine.

You start your lesson with a cheerful undertone, and you manage to continue it all the way through. Your students are all listening, participating and asking questions, with one exception. The boy with the black hoodie sitting by the window. His arms crossed on top of his desk. His black hoodie pulled all the way over his head, covering his face as he sleeps soundly throughout the entire hour. 

You know that you should probably call him out on it, because his behavior is truly unacceptable. But you’ve only started teaching 3 months ago. You are still eager to try and get his attention without having to swing an iron fist. Besides, it’s the 12th grade, graduation year. These kids should know right from wrong by now. 

The bell rings and while everyone is leaving the classroom, you gather your books and put them away in your bag. But the boy in the black hoodie is sleeping right through it all. You sigh as you walk over to him and knock on his desk twice. “Mr. Joseph, class is over, time to wake up.” You say with a hint of sarcasm in your voice. His eyes shoot open and he immediately sits up straight and looks at you. 

For that small second you can see right into his soul. It catches you off guard, because what you see is nothing but pain. But his gaze softens quickly when he notices his surroundings. He yawns and reaches down to grab his bag from the floor. “Tyler…” You say, your arms crossed now, and you sigh. 

But then you decide to change your tone and you scrape your throat, “Are you allright? Because if something is wrong… at home or… whatever, you can talk to me if you like.” There’s kindness in your voice and even though the look on his face is neutral, he seems to pick up on it. But it’s not enough and he shakes his head softly, mumbling, “I’m okay, thanks.”

Tyler hangs his backpack over one shoulder, holding the strap in his hand, as he gets up from his desk. “I heard you’re quite the basketball player.” You say, smiling. He nods a bit but doesn’t really answer. “You know…if you want that scholarship next year, you’re gonna have to get your grades up. And you won’t be able to do that by sleeping in class.” Dammit, that did sound like a lecture afterall. You bite your bottom lip, regretting your approach right away. 

He looks at you and frowns, “Who says I want that scholarship?” He asks. You lean back on the desk behind you, intrigued by his response. “Then what do you want?” You ask, genuinely interested. Tyler smirks, “What I want right now, is to leave this classroom. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”, He says and he walks out. You sigh and try to shake it off, but then you notice something written on the desk where Tyler was sitting. You frown, not really sure how to feel about this random act of vandalism. But your curiosity takes the upperhand and you slowly walk around the desk to take a closer look. The words are written in black marker, bold but small: “Remember the morning is when night is dead.”


	2. Chapter Two

“Everyone take their seats, please.” You say as you walk into the turbulent classroom. The noise drowns out and by the time you’re holding your book, the room is quiet. You look around, nervously fidgeting on the leather cover of the book. Tyler sits at the window on your right, in the back of the class. He is not wearing his hoodie, but he seems ready to fall asleep at his desk any minute now. 

So you scrape your throat and slowly say: “Edgar Allan Poe”, pronouncing the words with care. You turn around and write the name down on the chalkboard. When you turn back to face the kids, you find a whole room of questioning eyes staring at you. You take a deep breath, trying to remind yourself why you chose this topic in the first place. “Does anyone know who he was?” No reaction. “Anyone?” No reaction. You nod, “Okay, I admit this isn’t part of the curriculum, but it’s interesting nonetheless.” 

The black leather book is safely pressed against your chest as you cross your arms and lean back against your desk. “See, Edgar Allan Poe was a writer, a poet. He lived during the first half of the 19th century and he was one of the first American writers who tried to make a living with his writing. And that wasn’t easy…” You shake your head, “Today he is regarded as one of the biggest influences of fantasy and horror that ever lived. But during his lifetime he wasn’t praised for his work, no… on the contrary… He was an outcast. He was addicted to alcohol and drugs. Both of which eventually killed him at the age of 40.”

You look at Tyler, who’s still awake and you continue, “If you think of a poem, most of us will think of beautiful things like flowers and rainbows.” You look back at the rest of the class and shrug, “Because that’s what we want to read, don’t we? Think about it. We do it all the time. We listen and dance to an Ariana Grande song and believe that this is what life is all about. We go on Facebook, Instagram… and we look at other people and their perfect lives. But that’s not the truth, is it? The truth is not that perfect. Because life is not perfect.” 

You now have the attention of the entire class, including Tyler. So you decide to lighten it up as you go on, “Of course you can sing and dance to Ariana Grande,” and you joke, “I certainly have done so on multiple occasions”, giggles from every corner, “But there is no honesty in her music. Like it or not, it’s just not real. Because surely Arianna Grande isn’t happy and perfect 24/7, right? She must have days where she doesn’t feel like getting out of bed in the morning or days where she just wants to stay in, wear sweatpants and eat chocolate all day.” More giggles, but you only smile when you notice that Tyler is still awake.

“Why doesn’t she write about that? Why is it all flowers and rainbows and sunshine? I mean, there is so much more to talk about. And that’s what Poe did. He used poetry and written word to describe the horrifying things that life throws at us from time to time. He took something ugly and he made it beautiful. He created art from a very dark place, because that’s where his mind was a lot of the time, but he used it to make something purely unique. And that is exactly what art should be. It should be personal and real. It’s not another happy song, or another poem about roses, it’s a reflection of truth. No matter what that truth may be.”

When you stop talking, you see a bunch of confused kids staring back at you. But there’s one kid who seems to understand every word that’s coming out of your mouth. You keep your eyes glued on him for a second. Tyler just stares back at you, his lips pressed together and his gaze focused on you. Yes, you finally got through to him. You smile, while opening your book and start reading, “The Raven”.


	3. Chapter Three

The choices are limitless. These words run through your mind as you stare into the wooden box filled with different kinds of tea. You wonder if you’ve made the right decision introducing your students to the works of Edgar Allan Poe. They are pretty much adults, they should be aware that there is a darker side to this life. But you bite your lip, concerned you might have triggered something within some of them. Especially because, in all your enthusiasm, you’ve asked them to make an assignment. You’ve asked them to write something, anything really, that talks about a personal struggle. Your intention was to make them think about it, actually think about it, instead of hiding it behind all the Instagram selfies. 

But you might have done harm, instead of good. So here you are. Undecisive about the kind of tea you should make yourself. This is your routine. You come home after work, put on sweatpants and make yourself tea before dinner. It’s boring but it gives you a sense of relaxation that you desperately need. You aren’t much of a social being outside of your job, you never were. Your home is a sanctuary and the fact that you don’t have anyone to share it with doesn’t bother you at all. In fact, your last boyfriend didn’t ever step foot in your house. Not once in 7 months. This was your safe space. How could you possibly let anyone else stay here?

You pour the hot water in your mug, decide on ginger-cinnamon tea and make your way towards your sofa. The rain hits your windows in steady thick streaks. It’s Armageddon out there, which makes you even happier to be inside. You put your tea down on the coffee table as you gaze out the window. The sun has just gone down, it’s pretty dark out there. But you squint your eyes at the dark figure outside your window. He’s standing by your mailbox, at the bottom of the steps in front of your house. You can’t see his face. He’s wearing a dark hooded jacket and he’s pacing back and forth. 

Without actually thinking it through, you walk to your front door and open it. “Hey…” You shout. The rain is gushing so hard, it almost drowns out the sound of your voice. The figure stops pacing and looks up at you. “Tyler?” You ask, completely taken by surprise. He just stands there for a second and then shouts back at you, “I can’t do it.” You shake your head, “You can’t do what?” He takes a step closer to the steps that lead up to your front door. “The assignment.”, He says, “I can’t do it.” 

You frown, “Why not?” Tyler looks at his feet, seemingly hesitant to answer. Your heart is beating faster than it should. You’ve pretty much created the whole assignment to reach him and now he’s telling you he won’t do it. “I can’t because…”, he bites his lip, “you would have… concerns.” He shakes his head, “You would have to call my parents and stuff.” You tilt your head, intrigued. “Why is that?” You ask. 

Tyler rests his hand on the banisters and he sighs, “Because you would be obligated to.” You frown and say, “Legally or morally?” He smiles at your response and answers, “Both… I guess.” You inhale sharply through your nose, overwhelmed with worry at this point. You look around the empty street. Your warm breath leaves little clouds in the cold air outside. “C’mon.” You say, gesturing at him to come inside, “Come inside, it’s raining like hell out there.” 

Drops of water land on your sofa where Tyler is sitting. Parts of his hair and face are wet from the rain, and you briefly consider to get him a towel, but he uses the sleeve of his sweater to dry himself off. The moment you let him inside, you instantly regretted it. But he came all the way here to tell you something and you couldn’t just turn your back on him. “Would you like some tea?” You ask, awkwardly polite. He looks up at you with raised eyebrows, “Tea?”, he repeats, “Uh…” 

You quickly give him a smile and say, “Or something else? Milk… maybe?” Your smile fades. Did you just offer him milk? Okay, you don’t entertain much, but milk? Really? Tyler coughs once and then asks, “Warm milk?” You stare at him with a blank face. “With honey?” Tyler continues. You nod slowly, not sure if he’s yanking your chain or not. But Tyler smiles the most innocent smile you’ve ever seen and says, “Yeah, sounds really good, thank you.”


	4. Chapter Four

Tyler slowly sips from his milk, holding the mug with both hands. You haven’t said much. You just watch him as he sits on the sofa across from where you’re sitting. He’s wearing a grey sweater with a washed off logo on it. You’re guessing it’s a sports logo, but you really have no clue about sports so you can’t make out what it says. He puts the mug down but keeps his eyes fixated on the coffee table between you.

You are trying to think of something to say, but you don’t really know where to begin. So you get up from the sofa and take your bag. You take out the black leather book, that reads Edgar Allan Poe in silver print on the cover, and hand it to him. He looks up at you. “Here. You can borrow it, if you like.” You say. Tyler hesitantly takes it from you.

“What makes you think I would want to read this?” He asks, somewhat arrogant while he puts down the book on the coffee table. You sit back down and lean back. “Remember the morning is when night is dead.” You respond calmly. The look in his eyes reveals his crime and he seems a little bit embarrassed by it. “You know, that must be the most terrifying…”, You lean forward, “… and the most beautiful sentence I’ve ever read.” Tyler looks at you with widened eyes, completely focused on you now. You smile and say, “I know what it means, Tyler.” You shake your head slightly, “Now… you don’t have to read the book, but I thought it might inspire you.”

“Inspire me to do what?” He asks, genuinely intrigued. “To create. Whatever it is that you’d like to do. If you can take those thoughts and create something… constructive, you might be able to face them. Or even reach out and share them with anyone who wants to listen.”, You respond. Tyler bites the corner of his bottom lip and looks down at the black leather book in front of him. You take your cup of tea and take a sip, while he keeps thinking. Then he looks back at you and asks, “You mean like through music?” 

“Yeah, it could be music. It could be anything.”, You say nodding. Tyler keeps biting his lip and he looks around the room. He’s taking in his surroundings with precision and then his eyes rest on the old piano that’s set up against the wall. He points at it and says, “Do you play?” You pout your lips and smile, “Probably not as much as I should.” 

He takes a moment to think about it and then asks, “Can I…?” You nod and hold out your arm, gesturing him to go over to the piano, “Yeah, of course.” He gets up and walks over to the brown wooden piano, his back now turned to you. He stands still for a few seconds and then lets his hand glide over the smooth surface on top of the piano. He turns at you slightly and mutters, “You know, I have a keyboard at home.” His fingers are gently touching the keys now, but he doesn’t press them down. “But it’s just not the same thing.”, He shakes his head, “There’s something about a real piano that just… feels different.” 

He starts to play the keys, just hitting them slowly, one at a time. After a minute of incoherent random notes, he sits down behind the piano and the notes start to form a melody. It’s a calm, somewhat sad melody. But it’s beautiful and you sit back with your cup of tea in your lap. The music continues for a few minutes. You’re about to close your eyes and let it drown out your thoughts, but then you hear Tyler’s voice, “I don’t know where I… am supposed to go, so I… might just take my pride and go.”

His voice sounds unsteady and nervous at first. You sit very still and just look at him, trying to make yourself invisible. Tyler keeps playing and singing, his confidence growing with each word. He closes his eyes, “Won’t walk the world… any different…” He seems to have lost every drop of shyness as he goes on singing, “… Make a wall and make me fall and break me down…” You hold on to your cup, clenching it so hard that your knuckles are turning white. The hair on your arms stands up straight and a lump has formed in your throat. 

Hs voice is like a manifestation of all the emotions you’ve felt in your life. It doesn’t even matter if the words make sense to you. The rawness and the purity of his voice are enough to break through all the walls that you’ve built around yourself. The whole room seems to disappear as Tyler is singing. How can this 17 year old kid be so emotionally evolved? It’s as if he’s here to teach you instead of the other way around. He seems to have lived a century, carrying out a wisdom that you haven’t seen in any adult for a very long time. When the song ends and the piano fades, you are almost relieved. For a moment there you were certain that you’d start crying and you couldn’t let that happen in front of a student.


	5. Chapter Five

Tyler has stopped playing. It’s been quiet for a few minutes now, but you haven’t really noticed. He lets his hands rest in his lap, looking down at them, almost seemingly ashamed. “I’m sorry…” He mutters. The faint sound of his words is enough to make you snap out of your trance. You bite your lip, and compose yourself. “Sorry about what?”, You ask. But Tyler just shrugs. He walks back over to the sofa and sits down, purposely avoiding eye contact. “Tyler…”, You sigh, “That was pretty amazing, you know.” You smile at him, trying to find a way to make this less awkward. But he was so vulnerable just a minute ago and he realizes that all too well. He still doesn’t look at you, although you feel like he should. Just a glance and he would know that you understand. You get it. “Nobody wants to hear…what I have to say…” He mumbles. “That’s where you are wrong.”, You say, pointing your finger at him. “Because you don’t need to say it in so many words. You can describe it in your own way, not literal, but… more like poetry.” The end of your sentence sounded more like a question than a statement, but it’s enough to capture his attention. 

“Just like Poe. You are a poet, Tyler. And you can use that poetry to describe whatever you want without offending anyone.”, You hold out your hands, your palms upwards, “That way only the people who know will really hear you. Anyone else will just hear a song and nothing more. But it holds meaning for you and for the people who are just like you.” This makes Tyler smirk, “Suicidal?”, He sniffs and shakes his head. “How am I able to help anyone? I can’t even help myself.” He says. You stare at him for a second, baffled by the mirror reflection sitting right in front of you. You have asked yourself that same question over and over again. But over the past few months, standing in front of a classroom, you have learned something. You tilt your head and say, “Have you ever considered that those two things might actually be the same thing?”

The pile on your desk is growing, as your students hand in their assignments one by one. They all look the same, these papers, but you bite your lip, knowing they hide a different person inside of them. And then there’s Tyler. He smirks at you, while he drops a CD-ROM on your desk. You look at the blank disk and raise your eyebrows. You explicitly told your students their assignments needed to be written, seeing how you’re still teaching English class. “Don’t worry, I wrote it down as well.” Tyler says, answering your questioning gaze. He gently places his paper on top of the others. “Just…uhm… listen to it, if you have the time, and uhm, yeah, uhm, let me know what you think. Or whatever.” He stutters, trying his best to act casually.

You throw your coat on the first chair you see when you walk inside your house. Almost frantically rummaging through your bag to find the disk, as you set up your laptop and take out your headphones. Windows Media Player pops up on your screen and you are about to press play. But you refrain from doing so. You wait and breathe. Are you even ready for this? You were so touched by the song he played on your piano. And you’re definitely intrigued and curious to hear more. But a sudden wave of fear takes hold of you now. What if it makes you feel things? Things you have learned to cope with so well over the years. What if this is the key to Pandora’s box? Okay, maybe you need to your tea first.

You get up from your seat and walk towards your kitchen. You fill the kettle with water and heat it up. You take out your box of mixed teabags, not in any way organized, making your choice once again. But the computer screen is shedding a bright light that seems to get brighter the more you try to ignore it. You look somewhat angry at it, wishing it would just go away for now. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. But the screen leaves a white rectangular shape on the inside of your eyelids. “Dammit.”, You curse and you open your eyes, close the box of teabags and walk back over to your laptop. “Here goes nothing.” You mutter to yourself as you press play.


	6. Chapter Six

He only plays the black keys. And he sings like he is asking for permission to play the white keys. There's a tired sadness in his voice, a channelled anger in his words and a desperate demand for answers in his screams. This song comes at you with such precision and it hits all the right notes. When it's over, you sit still for a moment, not sure what to do next. The white noise in your headphones is all that you can hear. The echo of Tylers scream still in the back of your mind. You take off the headphones and pick up your bag from the floor, where you left it. You find the paper and read the title out loud, "Drown".

Tyler stares at the A on his paper, written in thick red marker. He doesn't smile, doesn't frown, doesn't even blink as he takes the paper and crumples it into a ball. You are still handing out the other papers, while his actions go unnoticed. But then he gets up from his chair, grabs his backpack and walks out. You watch the door close behind him and look at his desk, where he left the crumpled paper ball. You quickly pick it up before any of the other students can and walk back to your desk with a lump in your throat. You decide not to go after him. And even if you would want to, you can't leave your class unattented. So you proceed with your lesson as planned, pretending everything is allright. But the pain in your head is stabbing like a knife through both of your temples. You thought he would be happy. You thought you had finally found a connection. But the paper ball in your desk drawer tells you differently. 

That same evening you're more tired than usual. You even skip your usual routine of sweatpants and tea. You just go straight upstairs and run the shower. The hot steam evaporates and damps your cold bathroom window. The sense of failure and loneliness is so real and it hits you like a freight train. You sit down on the tiled floor and burst out into tears. You can't even remember the last time you cried, it's been so long. Now all of those bottled up emotions are pouring out of you. You try to stop, wiping the endless stream of tears from your eyes, smearing your mascara all down your cheeks. 

And that's when you hear the doorbell ring. It brings a shock to your system, so sudden that it stops your tears from falling. But you still don't get up. The doorbell rings again, just once. You aren't planning on answering it. Not in this state. You just wanna curl up in a ball and lay down on your bathroom floor for a while. But then it rings again, twice this time. It could be urgent. You take a deep breath. Time to act like an adult and open your door. You close your eyes and whisper to yourself, "Get up." Balling your fists, trying to gain strength, "Get up...get up and open your door." 

You run your hands across your face one more time before you open the door. But it doesn't mask the fact that you've been crying. "You've been crying." Tyler notes in a neutral voice and he tilts his head. You wipe your nose with the sleeve of your vest and you shrug. "No...", you answer rather unconvincingly. He doesn't question it any further as he walks in uninvited. You close the door behind him. "What... what are you doing here, Tyler?" You ask, trying to sound like a teacher instead of a hot mess. He looks around the hallway, although he has seen it before and says, "I wanted to apologize for my behaviour earlier." You raise your eyebrows, somewhat lost. In all of your self-blame you seem to have forgotten that he walked out of your class earlier today. But then it comes back to you and you scrape your throat, "Oh, yeah... well, uhm, it's considerate of you to come down here to tell me that, but I would appreciate..." Tyler cuts you off, "How can you grade me an A for something that's so messed up?" 

He sounds angry. You can see the fire in his eyes as he speaks, "Those songs... those lyrics aren't worth an A and you know it. They're simply a reflection of this...this evil thing inside of me, these despicable thoughts... I don't deserve credit for thinking like that. Why would you do that? Why would you give me credit for something that I should be condemned for?" You're taken by surprise. He's never been this verbal with you before. You don't really know what to say. Tyler runs his hands through his hair, his anger replaced by some kind of fear now. His voice trembles and he looks at you with watery eyes, "Don't you see? If I write or sing, I am allowing these thoughts to manifest. I can't...", He shakes his head, "I won't let them."


	7. Chapter Seven

Tyler breathes fast, nervously almost and it fills the empty space between you. You haven't responded yet. You're thinking of the right words, patiently waiting for them to form a sentence in your mind. And then they appear. "Let me ask you this.", you say in a calm and soothing voice, "When you wrote this song... or better yet, when you sang it... did you feel better afterwards? Did it feel like a weight off your shoulders, like you went through it and you could relax, if only for a small moment?" 

He looks at you, his gaze focused and he's clearly considering every word that you just said. "Because there's a word for that, Tyler. It's called catharsis. A way of working through things by manifesting them. It's purposely creating a space for these thoughts or emotions and leaving them there." You take a step in his direction, "You are gifted with the talent to do that in a way that not only purifies your own soul from, what you call, that evil thing. It also brings out the thoughts and emotions of those who listen to it. And that's why I graded you an A. Not for what you wrote, but for how you wrote it." 

"Oh..." Tyler hums and he looks down at his feet. He bites the corner of his bottom lip. The longer he stays silent, the more you start to doubt yourself all over again. But then he lifts up his head and says, "Catharsis, huh?" He nods a few times, short but fast. "I like that word." He smiles at you for the first time since he walked in and your heart lights up like a candle in the dark. You can't help but smile back at him. You were afraid he wouldn't understand your point of view. Disagreeing is one thing, but not being able to understand is another. But then he looks into your eyes and you wonder why you ever doubted him. He is right where you are. This unspoken bond of understanding between you is something that you never felt before. 

And that bond only gets stronger. It gets stronger with each day you spend together. Tyler visits your house almost every schoolnight. You talk for hours on end, about music and books, about faith and how it affects his views on life and death, about family, about fears and hopes and dreams. But he always plays the piano. He never leaves your house without touching it, even if it's just for five minutes. You've gotten so used to him playing music that you have a hard time falling asleep at night without having heard it. It even inspired you to play more as well. And even though you know in the back of your mind that this isn't what a normal student-teacher relationship looks like, you can't help but feel like this is what you're supposed to do.

You sit next to Tyler on the bench in front of the piano. You've been working on a song together, but it's not coming along as well as you both hoped. It started out as happy melody, reminding you of songs that were written in the 60's and 70's. But Tyler wrote the lyrics on a cold day in January and the weight of the song has gotten pretty heavy. So you convinced him to at least add a hopefull ending. He came up with the words "We'll try again someday, cause we love you. We won't forget that day, when love was true." which were as perfect as you had hoped. You play the higher keys as Tyler plays the lower keys, and the sound of you both playing together is so full that you can't help but tap your feet slightly as the song continues on. The chorus is a duet, and you are quite aware of your limited vocal skills, so you let Tyler take the lead as you back him up. 

You finish perfectly and chuckle as you raise your hand to give Tyler a high five. "Yeah, good job!", you say with enthousiasm as you turn towards him. He smiles at you and places his hand rather gently against yours. Then he leans in and kisses you. You push him away almost instantly. "Wow..." You mutter, but then Tyler leans in again and so do you as you kiss him back. This time the kiss lasts a bit longer, and you can taste the sweet flavour of honey on his lips from the warm milk he drank earlier. You place your hand on his cheek as you back away. "Shit." Tyler quickly states. "Yeah..." You respond and you shake your head, "I can't... We can't..." Tyler nods and looks down, frowning. You keep shaking your head, "This is all my fault, I'm sorry. I made a mistake getting this close to you. Hell... I shouldn't even have let you inside my house." 

Tyler seems a bit shocked by this, but you keep on talking, "This is on me. It's my mistake, I'm sorry." He frowns and asks, "Are you?" You sigh, "Tyler, you're my student. You're only 17 years old. You know this isn't... It's not..." He cuts you off, "Love?" He seems angry and misunderstood. You correct him, "Right. It's not right." But Tyler doesn't want to hear it, "It feels right. Tell me it doesn't feel right." It hurts when you realize that you can't.


End file.
